


here's the day you hoped would never come

by epitome



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Barkspawn - Freeform, Break Up, Dark Ritual, Drabble, F/M, King Alistair, One Shot, Party Banter, Post-Landsmeet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-15 23:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11816235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epitome/pseuds/epitome
Summary: “I just...wanted to make sure you were alright.”“That’s not your concern anymore, Your Majesty.”





	here's the day you hoped would never come

**Author's Note:**

> Sten, Shale, and Oghren were not recruited. Zevran was killed after his failed assassination attempt.
> 
> Based on & contains party banter between Alistair & Morrigan.
> 
> Title from "Speeding Cars" by Imogen Heap.

Perhaps what bothers him most is how she pretends she isn’t hurt.

They haven’t known each other for long, not really, but their shared experiences brought them closer together more quickly than he ever could have anticipated. Hadn’t he said, at Ostagar, that the good thing about the Blight is how it brought people together?

He knows her. Can hear the falseness in her laugh, can see how her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes and disappears entirely when she thinks no one is watching. She’s more reckless in battle. She doesn’t stick around the campfire as long, eating quickly and then making excuses about tending to Barkspawn or cleaning her armor. It’s like she’s erected a wall around herself.

Her tent is still nearest his, though - he supposes that’s a continued part of her charade that nothing is wrong - and one night when Leliana takes first watch he could swear he hears stuttering, choking breaths coming from her tent.

And at the same time he wants to comfort her, he knows he can’t. It breaks his heart.

 _She knew what would happen if she made you king. You begged her not to, and she did it anyway,_ a voice whispers at the back of his mind. _She has to deal with the consequences. She’s getting what she deserves. It’s only fair._

But if it’s so fair, why does it hurt so much?

* * *

The day she finally breaks he’s almost relieved, but he’s too angry at the time to realize it.

They’re on their way to an outpost a few days’ journey from Denerim, where their forces are gathering, preparing for the final assault. It’s been a few weeks since the Landsmeet and she’s gotten more withdrawn than ever. The others are finally starting to make their notice known, but she pushes them away.

Predictably, it’s Morrigan who stirs the pot.

“Am I to understand that you two have ended your relationship?”

Alistair tenses, but continues walking. His eyes immediately lock on Mahariel in front of them, leading the way. Her shoulders have hunched, and she doesn’t react when Barkspawn tries nudging his head under her hand. “Shut up! That is none of your business.”

Also predictably, Morrigan doesn’t heed his orders. “What? No questions allowed? You do not wish your motivations-”

Alistair spins on his heel, pointing an accusing finger at the Witch of the Wilds. “I said shut up! I will run this sword through you, I'm not joking.”

It must not be very intimidating, for Morrigan merely raises her eyebrows, not even bothering to flinch. “Oh, I see. Most serious then.”

“This discussion is _over_ ,” he spits back, muttering his displeasure with the witch as he turns back to continue following Mahariel to the outpost. She’s stopped walking as well, and her expression is so hurt he doesn’t know what to do.

He hears a watery command to _stay,_ then a deep shuddering breath, and before he realizes what’s going on, Mahariel has rushed off into the woods and hills along the road.

Barkspawn turns and growls at them, clearly displeased by the command he’d been given and somehow _knowing_ that it was because of his fellow companions.

“ _Now_ look what you did!”

“Me? I did nothing. T’was you who spurned her affections, was it not?”

Now it’s Alistair who growls his frustration. “I didn’t - no, you know what, I don’t owe _you_ of all people an explanation. I’m going after her.”

“Perhaps your one wit has finally kicked in,” she deadpans at his back. He curses her again, hating that she has to have the last word - and hating how she’s _right_.

Alistair knows she’s fast, but she can't have gone far - and, he notices as he spies bootprints in the mud and some broken branches, she was upset enough for it to not occur to her to make any attempts at stealth. He follows her tracks to a tree, where they abruptly end.

He knows his love well enough to look up, rather than around. He knows she needs to get it out, so he doesn’t demand she climb down from her perch, just lets her cry into the tree trunk. And he knows she knows he’s there - heavy plate clanks unnaturally in the woods - so he simply unclips his sword from his belt, slides his shield off his back, and sits cross-legged on the ground, leaning back against the same tree.

Eventually the heaving breaths turn into sniffles, and he hears the leaves rustle as she shifts.

“What do you want.” Her voice is hoarse and raspy from tears. He feels the now-familiar ache in his chest, the dread knotting in his throat.

“I just...wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“That’s not your concern anymore, _Your Majesty_.” The honorific is an insult.

He lets the silence settle in for awhile before he says anything else. He wants to shout at her, wants to make her acknowledge that he wasn’t going to take any of this until she shoved the crown on his head herself. Wants to shake her by the shoulders, wants to draw her into his arms and comfort her and be comforted. But he can’t.

So all he says is, “You’re right. My apologies.”

He schools his face into one of the expressions they’d drilled into him during Templar training and marches back to the road, forcing himself to ignore the sobs that have started up again. He ignores Morrigan’s arched eyebrow and Barkspawn’s questioning huff.

Ten minutes later, Mahariel returns, unsuccessfully attempting to hide her tear-reddened eyes and blotchy face with her helmet. She won’t meet anyone’s gaze. Barkspawn whines, but the elf only steels herself before leading them forward once again.

* * *

Things change, after that. She stops bringing him along on scouting missions, where he’d once been at her side almost every time she’d left camp. At camp, she pretends he doesn’t exist, looks unseeing past him. She moves her tent away, nearly as far from the rest of them as Morrigan’s. Barkspawn growls at anyone who gets close to her tent to try and comfort her, and when they approach her at other times she pushes them away.

“I am here to stop the Blight. I’m not here to be your friend, _shem_.”

One night, after one of Leliana’s failed attempts, he hears Wynne mention something about self-destructive tendencies to the bard, but pretends not to notice.

It’s none of his business, after all.

* * *

The night before the final battle, Morrigan knocks on his door, and he doesn’t immediately turn her away as he considers her proposal.

He shouldn’t do it.

But he loves her, and it’s his only chance - _her_ only chance. He knows she won’t be taking him with her tomorrow. He can’t let her die.

He agrees.

* * *

He sees what Wynne meant, when he sees the slightly crazed, anticipatory look in Mahariel’s eyes when she and the rest of her party leave him at the gate.

He is not a religious man, but he prays, then, to any god that will listen, that his sin will lead to her survival.

* * *

He gets his answer when he finds them after the battle. She’s collapsed near the Archdemon’s head, Wynne tending to her injuries while Leliana keeps a lookout. Barkspawn retains his post at Mahariel’s side, ever the loyal hound. The sword juts out from its corpse, but Mahariel still lives.

He’s so overcome by relief that he can’t even cry, only shivers in his armor.

He keeps his distance, holding his breath when her eyes flutter open, and after a moment, Wynne slowly assists her into a seated position. For a moment, Mahariel doesn’t seem to recognize where she is.

Then she locks eyes with his. Her eyebrows furrow, a line Alistair is intimately familiar with sprouting on her forehead between them. Her gaze is like ice. The hairs on the back of his neck rise in discomfort.

_She knows._

Alistair retreats, quick as he can, with a half-hearted excuse.

* * *

She corners him after the ceremony. He’s refused to see her, has actually done his best to have his healers keep her in her room, and while Wynne had done much for her, the battle had taken its toll on all of them. When she’d fully recovered, he’d let Teagan spirit him away to learn more about his responsibilities and the state of his kingdom. He’s ashamed that he’s afraid to face her.

“I was ready to die,” she accuses. He can only stare at her in response, mouth dry. It’s one thing to know it, but another thing altogether to hear her say it.

“I couldn’t let that happen,” he finally musters up. It’s not enough. It will never be enough, not in this world where circumstances both pre-arranged and set into motion by Mahariel herself have driven them apart.

“It wasn’t your choice to make.” Her tone is clipped, and she makes it clear that the conversation is over by turning to leave. Once again he regrets his inability to get the last word in.

He doesn’t chase after her. Just watches her back as she retreats.

The next day he awakens to the news that she has already departed to her new post at Weisshaupt. Part of him is relieved. The remainder wants to lock himself in his room away from everyone who wants something from him, to hit something, to sleep until it’s all over.

_Maker, will that be the last I ever see of her?_

But he can't dwell on those thoughts, the ones that keep him up at night, the what-ifs that drive away any possibility of sleep. He has a kingdom to run, refugees from the Blight to reestablish, people who are depending on him.

His chest doesn’t hurt anymore. It just feels empty. Numb. Even the ache was better than this.

He will do his duty. She will do hers.

Even if it hurts.

**Author's Note:**

> Not so sure I'm pleased with this, but I had to get it out of my system. It got a lot longer than I expected.
> 
> Might build on this in the future for a longer fic idea I'm puzzling around.


End file.
